We have often driven past the whirligig man’s house (the corner of 12th and Maple if I’m remembering correctly). We have admired the colourful contraptions hanging from the branches of a tree in his yard. Finally we purchased this “Crazy Bird.” It makes me smile every time I look at it, hanging there twirling above the back deck. I’d love one on every corner of the house! I think you should all go buy one right now and make Jack happy. Get it directly from him (if you buy it elsewhere you’ll pay twice as much). Ask Jack if you can peek into his studio at the back of the house – it’s crazy in there. He has branched out into furniture now. His is one prolific cottage industry. Support local folk artists!

The W.I. blog has been launched courtesy of the Convenor of Minutes and Musings (CoMM). I have added it to my links. It makes great reading, particularly while listening to Lucinda Williams Car Wheels on a Gravel Road. As a proud member, I can attest to the accuracy and historical significance of the events described therein, and to the determination, drive, and good intentions of the magnificent seven.

“Prisoner of the Patio.” This is what Louise has dubbed me as I recover from surgery and bask in the sunshine (thank goodness the weather has improved exponentially). Sitting still I realize patience is not in my genes. I amuse myself by creating phrases. “Am I still the sum of my parts without some of my parts?” The Tylenol 3 and Advil combo creates a haze that necessitates an afternoon nap. The dog stares at me as if I’m becoming a petrified tree.

I do sedentary things, but since I must do these things, rather than wanting or choosing to do them, I am frustrated and, something I rarely get, bored. My usual way of thinking is that only boring people get bored. That’s why hobbies were invented.

Don’t get me wrong. I am lucky, lucky, lucky. It’s just that it’s important for me to live in the moment and fully inhabit and process the condition I find myself in, which, given what most inhabitants of this planet endure, is a picnic.

How can I feel sorry for myself? I drink organic fair trade coffee. I listen to music that I love (singer/songwriters such as Amelia Curran, Rae Spoon, Ingrid Michaelson, Laura Gibson, Amy Seeley, Anna Ternheim, Lynn Miles, Martha Tilston, Rose Cousins, Serah Cahoone, and Eliza Gilkyson). I write in my journal, and I’m reading a novel (The Elegance of the Hedgehog). I haven’t watched much TV (most of it is so banal), although I did catch a great documentary: The City Dark. It’s about light pollution and its negative effects. It disorients baby turtles so that they can’t find their way to the ocean, migrating birds get distracted by the lights on the ground when trying to navigate by the constellations and fly into buildings. All this could be solved by pointing more lights downward, which would also waste less energy and allow humans to see more stars.

All of the activities I’m engaged in are highly pleasant. However I still feel like an invalid. I just realized that this word means “not valid.” How unfair is that?

Once a day I shuffle to the mailbox in my pajama bottoms, but what I really want to do, what I have a burning desire to do, is to sweep the back deck. The broom whispers to me. Who would have ever thought I would be yearning to do a chore?